Gilead - Marilynne Robinson [97]
make that mistake." He laughed. "I generally correct them. I did her."
Now, the fact is, I don't know how old Boughton would take all this. It surprised me to realize that. I think it is an issue we never discussed in all our years of discussing everything. It just didn't come up.
I said, "I take it you've talked to Glory."
"No. I can't do that. She'd just break her heart over it. She can tell there's something on my mind. She probably thinks I'm in trouble. I believe my father thinks so, too."
"I believe he does."
He nodded. "He was crying yesterday." He looked at me. "I have disappointed him again." And then he said, controlling his voice, "I haven't had any word from my wife since I left St. Louis. I have been waiting to hear from her. I have written to her a number of times— What is the proverb? 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.' " He smiled. "I have even found myself turning to liquor for solace."
I said, "So I understand," and he laughed.
" 'Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto the bitter in soul.' Isn't that right?"
Word for word.
He said, "The first thing she ever said to me was 'Thank you, Reverend.' She was walking home in a rainstorm with an armful of books and papers—she was a teacher—and some of the papers fell onto the pavement, and the wind was scattering them, so I helped her gather them up, and then I walked her to her door, since I had an umbrella. I didn't think about what I was doing, particularly. My impeccable manners."
"You were well brought up."
"I was indeed." He said, "Her father told me that if I were a gentleman I'd have left her alone. I understand why he feels that way. She had a good life. And I am not a gentleman." He wouldn't let me object to that. "I know what the word means, Reverend. Though I can now say that the influence of my wife worked a change in me for the better, at least temporarily." Then he said, "I don't want to tire you with this. I know I've interrupted you. I'll tell you why I have kept trying to talk to you."
I told him he was welcome to take all the time he wanted.
He said, "That's very kind." And then he just sat there for a little while. "If we could find a way to live," he said, "I think she would marry me. That would answer her family's most serious objections, I believe. They say I can't provide a decent life for my family, and that has in fact been the case to this point." He cleared his throat. "If you can really spare me the time, I will explain. Thank you. You see, I met Delia during a fairly low point in my life. I won't go into that. Delia was very nice to me, very pleasant. So I found myself now and then walking down that street at that hour, and sometimes I saw her and we spoke. I swear I had no intentions at all, honorable or otherwise. It was just pleasant to see her face." He laughed. "She would always say, 'Good afternoon, Reverend.' I was not at that time accustomed to being treated like a respectable man. I must say I enjoyed it. It got so that I would walk along her street with no thought of seeing her, just because there was a kind of comfort in being reminded of her. And then one evening I did meet her, and we spoke a little, and she asked me in for tea. She shared rooms with another woman who taught at the colored school. It was pleasant. We had our tea together, the three of us. I told her then I was not a minister. So she knew that. I believe she invited me in in the first place because she was under that impression, but I was honest with her. About that. It didn't seem to matter too much.
"I don't know just how it happened—I stopped by to lend her a book I had bought in order to lend it to her—as if from my library—I even dog-eared a few pages—and she invited me to come for Thanksgiving dinner. She knew I wasn't on excellent terms with my family, and she said she couldn't have me spending the holiday by myself. I said I was uncomfortable with strangers, and she promised me it would be all right. Still, I had a couple of drinks before I came and I